A Little Fall of Rain
by Goomba Fortress
Summary: In the face of an untimely demise, Sherlock shows John just how important he is. Johnlock, but only a little bit. Here, there be character death.


It's late at night when Several gunshots split the air open in an otherwise quiet area of London, and John vaguely remembers wincing against the oncoming leaden bullets that he knows far too much about.

It had all happened so fast, by the time Sherlock had hit the pavement, John was dazed, sitting up on the asphalt. Above the pair, a gibbous moon sails on a sea of dark, advancing clouds. John only catches a glimpse of the criminals coat tails disappearing behind a brick building, and he turns his attention to his companion.

"Sherlock, you okay?" A drop of rain hits John's arm as he reaches for the dark mop of curls a few feet away.

The raven haired detective rolls over onto his back and John sucks in a breath at the stark red stain on his chest. Blood has soaked through his trademark purple shirt and is pooling around the weakened detective, and John feels his blood run cold.

"Oh- no. No no no." John pulls Sherlock into his lap, reaching down the man's soaked torso to find a countless amount of holes. The man himself is laughing, hysterically almost, and John knows what is happening. Flashes of Sherlock's previous death come unbidden before his eyes and he shuts out the ache before it has a chance to start.

For all the medical training that he has, and for all the lives he had saved in Afghanistan, he knows a fatal wound when he sees it. This death will be far more permanent, and John feels his heart ripping.

John shuffles around in his coat pockets frantically looking for his mobile, hoping that he still has time to save his friend's life.

As if to interrupt, a slender, white hand lands on his wrist. "Stop, just leave it." His voice is a hollow echo of what it should be, and John can feel his life slipping from underneath his own shaking fingers.

"Why the hell did you do that?" John is the veteran, he is supposed to be the brave one. Sherlock shouldn't care enough to be stepping in front of bullets.

Sherlock's breath is labored, sucked in through pale lips. "I can't live without you."

John blinks against the rain now pelting him in the face. This wasn't fair. "And you think I can? Jesus." John rakes a hand through his hair, there's so much blood, and it just seems to keep coming out. Without thinking, John takes his coat off and lays it over Sherlock's injured torso, shielding his dying friend from the rain.

"Don' be silly." Sherlock's laugh is breathy and his dry lips crack in a smile. "A little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now."

John's heart is racing at the thought of losing his best friend, and his arms circle around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling the dying man closer. "I can't believe- you massive git, of all times to grow a conscience, you choose now." He's talking more to himself now, and he hunches over his mop of inky curls, smoothing stray locks away from fading blue eyes.

"Please, just don't leave." Sherlock never begs, and the very sound of his voice makes John's throat go dry.

"It's a little late for that, considering. You're the one doing the leaving." The rain has gotten louder now, pounding at his backside and nearly drowning out conversation.

"Oh, John, it's marvelous." Sherlock's gaze is lost somewhere over John's shoulder, and John's hand grazes pale cheekbones, bringing his gaze back.

"I'll call Mycroft, he can help you." John is searching for his phone again, and it isn't until Sherlock's fingers wrap around John's arm that he stops.

"Let it be, we have more important things to discuss."

John rolls his eyes, completely at his end. "What on earth could matter now?" John's eyes squeeze shut and a brief cry escapes his throat.

"You. You matter, John." It's the first time Sherlock has ever said that anyone mattered, and the very admission at the end of his life makes John's heart break all the more.

"I can't do this." John's breath is coming in ragged, and he is no longer trying to hold back the tears.

"For me, please. Do this one last thing for me." His voice is insistent in the pounding rain, and John hates the look of absolution in his friend's eyes.

"The last time you asked that of me," John trails off, a quiet sob escaping his throat. It hurt to remember the years he had been forced to be apart from him. It seems so inconsequential now, he will have the remainder of his life to live only in his memories. Sherlock had been a wonderful interruption in his life, it only made sense that he too would be taken away from him.

"I swear, it's the last time." A boyish smirk passes his lips and John finds himself laughing in spite of everything. Nodding, the doctor listens carefully for Sherlock's next words.

A slender hand snakes up John's wet neck and cradles the back of his head, and before John has a chance to react, he finds Sherlock's quivering lips pressed against his own. As soon as they were there, they left, and Sherlock peels away with a satisfied smile before his eyes slip closed.

It's an eternity later before a medical team arrives to find John rocking on his heels and cradling the dead body of his flatmate.


End file.
